


on an exhalation

by ictus



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Episode: s03e06 Tailing a Comet, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 05:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17420024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/pseuds/ictus
Summary: Shiro has never shied away from his touch before.





	on an exhalation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [planetundersiege](https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetundersiege/gifts).



> Written for the Chocolate Box Exchange, set during s03e06 following Shiro's rescue from the Galra.

 

“Is this okay?”

Keith turns, scissors in hand. Shiro’s sitting on the floor with his back to him, his shoulders hunched. He looks strangely vulnerable like this, curled in on himself and leaving the back of his neck exposed, his feet bare where they’re tucked under his legs.

He swallows, his pulse jumping in his throat. “It’s fine.”

The space between them might as well be a chasm with the way Keith hesitates to cross it. He does so cautiously, like cornering a skittish animal, an unfamiliar discomfort expanding in his chest with every step. Shiro has always put him at ease, has always been the one to bridge the gap between them. But now, after months of captivity, Keith’s not sure he recognises the person before him. He can’t reconcile this man with the memory of the Shiro he used to know.

“Do you have a towel?”

Shiro jumps at the sound of his voice, still unable to suppress his fight or flight response. His muscles are tensed beneath the thin fabric of his undershirt, coiled tight and ready to spring at any moment. The sense of unease in the pit of Keith’s stomach deepens.

“Here,” he says, passing a rolled towel over his shoulder without turning.

Keith murmurs his thanks and settles down behind him, cautious to leave a couple of inches between them. Shiro’s hair is still damp from the shower where it hangs like a curtain over his shoulders. Keith takes a deep breath, the sound impossibly loud in the silent room, reaches out and—

Shiro flinches.

Keith’s startled by the sudden movement, withdraws his hand as if he’s been burnt. Shiro’s never shied away from his touch before. They’re silent for a long moment, both of them holding their breath.

“Sorry,” Shiro says, his tone clipped.

“It’s fine,” he says softly, his reassurance doing little to ease the tense line of Shiro’s shoulders.

After that, it’s even harder to reach out to Shiro. But he does, gently drawing his hair into a loose ponytail, his eyes catching on all the new scars covering his arms and shoulders. Shiro manages to tamper down his reaction this time, a sharp intake of breath the only sign that he’s uncomfortable. Keith draws the towel over his shoulders, hoping that minimising skin-to-skin contact will make this easier for him to endure.

“Your hair grows fast,” Keith says, more to fill the silence than anything else.

Shiro doesn’t respond right away, the words taking some time to reach him. When he does, he merely hums an acknowledgement. If Keith wants conversation, he’s going to have to carry it himself.

“You know, I taught myself how to do this back at the home,” he says as he starts cutting through the base of his ponytail, the metallic sound of the shears setting his teeth on edge. Shiro’s hair is thick and it takes some effort, but once it’s gone Shiro sits up a little straighter, like a weight’s been lifted.

“One of the kids was—we didn’t really get along.” He pushes gently at the back of Shiro’s head, easing him into a bow. “He was always trying to rile me up, to provoke me so I’d get into trouble.” Keith starts at the nape of his neck, sectioning his hair and drawing it between his first and second fingers, making even cuts. Shiro shudders with each and every press of Keith’s fingers to his skin. Keith tries to ignore how much it hurts.

“We didn’t get an allowance or anything. But for our birthdays, they would buy us our favourite candy.” At every pause, he can hear Shiro breathing through his nose and imagines him clenching his teeth, measuring every breath. He quickens his pace. “One year, he asked for about twenty different flavours of bubble gum and—you can see where this is going, right?”

Shiro’s hands are clenched into fists where they rest on his thighs. He doesn’t respond.

Keith hesitates. Eventually, he presses on. “When I woke up with a big glob of it stuck in my hair, I knew I had to take care of it myself. We only got taken to the barber’s once every two months. And if any of the staff found out, they’d shave my head like they did with the kids who had lice. After that, I started cutting it myself.”

He trails off awkwardly. He’s not sure why he told that story. Shiro’s always known the perfect thing to say when Keith was angry or upset, was the only one who could ever cheer him up after a bad day. But Keith’s no good at these things, finds the words clumsy on his tongue. It’s hard to know how to offer comfort when you’re so used to rejecting it at every turn.

For a long time there’s nothing but the clink of the shears as the blades come together again and again, Shiro’s hair falling like a dusting of ash on his shoulders. Keith’s starting on the sides before Shiro finally speaks.

“What did you do?”

Keith pauses mid-cut. “Huh?”

Shiro’s quiet again for so long Keith wonders if he’ll even reply. In profile, Keith can see his eyes are screwed shut, his mouth pressed into a firm line.

“To the kid. What did you do to get back at him?”

Keith hesitates, a lock of Shiro’s hair still caught between his fingers. He’s struck by the memory of a bloody nose and his own bruised knuckles, of a split lip that bled copper into his mouth.

“Nothing,” he says, perhaps a little too quickly. Shiro has suffered so much violence at the hands of others, and he can’t bear to remind him that his own hands are capable of harm, not when Shiro’s already so adverse to his touch.

He clears his throat. “When the caretakers found out what he did, they grounded him and he had to do extra chores. I figured a month of scrubbing toilets made up for it.”

Shiro hums, and Keith’s not sure he buys it. Shiro knows him better than anyone, knows that Keith has never let go of anything. Not a grudge, not a challenge, and certainly not a—a friend. The fact that he never gave up on looking for Shiro is a testament to that.

By the time Keith’s finished his sides, Shiro’s openly trembling. The feeling of helplessness that comes with the knowledge that he can do nothing to ease Shiro’s pain cuts him to his core, flays him open. When he asks if Shiro wants a break, he shakes his head so violently that Keith almost takes his ear off. So, he perseveres. He keeps up a steady murmur of reassurances, meaningless things like _hang in there_ and _almost done_ and prays that Shiro can hold on for just a little bit longer.

Keith’s trimming his bangs when Shiro lets out a whimper. His face is scrunched up in anguish, his brow drawn tight and eyes squeezed shut. Keith hovers, frozen in place, feeling that any movement could sever the fine thread of Shiro’s control. But then he whispers _please_ on an exhalation, just the faintest sound escaping his lips, and Keith’s spurred into action, making the final cuts without hesitation.

“There you go, all done,” he murmurs as Shiro takes his first deep breaths since they started, his chest shuddering with the effort. “That’s it, it’s over, it’s done.”

Keith crawls behind him to gather up the towel and wipe the stray bristles from his neck. He’s so gentle, so careful—but as he pulls the towel away his hand brushes the nape of Shiro’s neck. Shiro cries out as if he’s been struck, an agonised sound that sparks guilt deep in Keith’s gut.

“Shit Shiro, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Keith’s apology stutters to a halt when Shiro reaches over his shoulder to grab Keith’s wrist, lightning-fast. Keith feels his whole world narrow down to the point where their bodies meet, every nerve set alight by Shiro’s touch. For several long seconds they hover in suspension, until Shiro pulls Keith’s hand forward.

Shiro groans at the first press of Keith’s fingers to the nape of his neck, holding his wrist in place with an iron grip. Keith asks a question in the form of Shiro’s name, his other hand already reaching for him.

“Keith, _please_ —”

At those words, Keith snakes his arms around Shiro’s shoulders and pulls him tight against his chest. Shiro chokes on a gasp and shudders against him, his fingers digging into Keith’s forearms like he’s trying to anchor himself. He uses the leverage to drag Keith forward so they’re even closer, as if he can’t bear for there to be even an inch between their bodies.

Shiro says his name again and it sounds like a plea, so Keith wraps his legs around Shiro’s hips, presses his entire torso against Shiro’s back and buries his face in the crook of his neck. Keith can’t see his face but he can feel the tension in every inch they’re pressed together, and Keith finds himself mumbling without even realising it. _It’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re safe—_ the same simple words over and over again, like if he says them enough times they’ll become true.

They stay pressed together like that until Shiro manages to get his breathing under control, until it’s stable enough for him to speak around the lump in his throat.

“Keith—do you—could you stay here with me? Just for tonight?”

Keith's heart pounds against his ribs, aching with a pain he has no words for. It takes him some time to find his own voice. “I’ll stay here for as long as you need,” he murmurs, pressing his face into Shiro’s shoulder.

Like a dam finally broken, Shiro chokes out a sob at his words, his entire body shaking as he unravels in Keith’s arms.

Keith draws him close, and holds on a little tighter.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/scansionictus).


End file.
